


Frailty

by Different_shade (halfthedamage)



Category: Bandom, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Deadly Sin: Wrath, Depression, Gen, Mention of sex, Murder, Revenge, Violence, mention of rape, mention of suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-25
Updated: 2013-01-25
Packaged: 2017-11-26 20:26:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/654090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halfthedamage/pseuds/Different_shade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’s just a corrector of wrongs. This is his responsibility.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Frailty

**Author's Note:**

> Written for mychemicaltest@lj Seven Deadly Sins challenge.  
> Title is from movie of the same name.  
> This is from Mikey's POV just to be clear.

They won’t understand; no one will understand. There’s no use in pulling that skeleton out of the closest. ‘Misunderstood’ is probably an understatement. Something along the lines of disgusted or appalled would be more accurate. They might say they love him, and will always be there no matter what, but they haven’t seen this ‘what.’

 

His ‘what’ is the thing nightmares are made of; no, not nightmares, night terrors. His ‘what’ is not for the faint of heart, but instead for the nonexistent of heart.

 

He’s been fighting for years. He’s been fighting his demons for over fifteen years. Demons that plague almost every waking moment. Demons with a purpose, a vengeance, a fucking death grip on his mind, body, and soul. He can almost see them, hear them, touch them, taste them as they invade his psyche and overwhelm his being.

 

The looming concrete buildings conceal him, the streetlight’s glow just missing the pitch-black alleyway. With his hands around her neck, and her arms and legs bound, she can barely put up a struggle, and finally takes her last breath.

 

The purple marks he’s created are shockingly beautiful to him (and his demons) against her pale skin. As her mouth hangs open slightly and her doe eyes seem to bulge even more, he places a sickly-sweet kiss upon the now-cooling skin of her cheek. What’s even sicker is the whispered ‘sorry’ he leaves behind, as if it somehow makes it okay; that somehow that ‘sorry’ redeems him. If he says it enough times to these faceless women, then maybe one day he’ll actually believe that he’s sorry; but he’s not.

 

It’s not him he thinks should be sorry; it’s them. These faceless women deserve what he gives them. They deserve to be kidnapped, beaten, tied up, strangled, and on rare but well deserved occasions, raped. The things they have done are wrong, and he’s here to stop them from ever doing them again. These careless, faceless women will never hurt anyone again.

 

But tonight’s different. The hushed sorry is actually sincere, but not to the lifeless form before him. The woman is not one of the faceless. Her face is the only one he’s ever truly known.

 

In the morning he’ll get a phone call asking if he knows where she is. He’ll simply answer ‘no’ because really, he wouldn’t know where she would be. He’ll pretend to care that she’s missing, all the while knowing that alley cats and mice will be picking at her decaying filthy fucking flesh before some innocent passerby discovers her mangled body among the trash. The trash she deserves to be buried under.

 

Someone will be pacing, another staring blankly, while someone else will have a phone glued to their ear, and lastly, someone will be crying in the corner. He’ll sit patiently, observing, patting people on the back, consoling and giving support.

 

‘She’ll show up. I’m sure she’s fine,’ he’ll say, giving a smile most would think was forced under waning hope, but his smile is of complete and utter satisfaction and happiness. He knows she’s not okay, and that she won’t be returning. He made it his responsibility years ago.

 

When he was twelve, he walked in on his mother with another man, not his father, in their bedroom. Four months later, his parents were divorced, and three weeks later, his father put a 12-gauge shotgun in his mouth and left.

 

At fifteen, his best friend’s girlfriend gave the captain of the soccer team a blowjob at homecoming in the boys’ bathroom. Two days after finding out, his best friend was sent to juvenile detention for assault with a death weapon, with intent to kill.

 

He’s done this a million times; six, actually, to be exact. Three prostitutes, two college classmates, and a drunken fan in Albuquerque, NM.

 

And she’s number seven. Lucky number seven.

 

After almost three years of holding out, restraining himself, and battling his demons, here he is again. Hunched over, breathing heavily, and smiling.

 

Three years ago, he wanted something bigger, something that would make an impact. Not just another girl whose face would be seen on the local news channel for a week, and then be forgotten. He wanted something to last. If not their lives, then the fact that they were gone, he hoped, would stick with someone.

 

He didn’t know when he met her that she’d be the one. The big catch.

 

He didn’t know that when she wooed his brother that she’d be the one.

 

Then she did what he’d been waiting for someone like her to do. She did what made his demons spark back to life.

 

He could smell it on her, her betrayal. He smelled it on all of them. The disgusting smell of a cheating whore. Cheap cologne, sex, sweat, and putrid lies. He swallowed the rising bile.

 

With a simple touch of his hand, he can see them. Burning off the imprinted swirls of his fingertips. He can see what they had done, see the people they were hurting. See that it was his responsibility.

 

He couldn’t let them go home and crawl into a bed of lies and taint the trust they were given but had not earned.

 

They needed to pay for what they had done. She needed to pay for what she had done.

 

He was doing this out of love, in the name of justice. He never saw himself as a vigilante but merely a corrector of wrongs. It was never a selfish act. He did it for others, so that these women could stop hurting the people they claimed to love.

 

He’s fulfilled his duty.

 

Even though his brother will cry and shake when they find her body, he will feel no remorse. He’s already said his sorry, and left it with her corpse. He was sorry it had to end this way; sorry that she was a slut.

 

He’ll hold him, console him, watch him fall, and be there to pick him up. After the depression, the suicide attempts and the brief relapse he’ll be there to pick up the pieces.

 

And when he’s done mourning, he’ll be thanked. And he’ll barely accept it. Not because he’s being modest or because ‘it’s just what brothers do,’ but because it’s not the right thank-you.

 

But he never did it to be thanked, and he never will, because it was never for selfish reasons.

 

He’s just a corrector of wrongs.

 

This is his responsibility.


End file.
